Atonement
by Construct
Summary: Identical in Image; Contrasted in Character. The same yet different. Part Two of 'Depths of Despair' Arc. Please R&R!


_**Depths of Misery: Atonement**_

Summary: Identical in image: contrasted in character. The same, yet different.

Disclaimer: I only own the evil plot bunny that is currently eating my ankles.

Author: Construct a.k.a Léoma Céne,

A/N: I love feedback and I really want some, please, but put 'AFB' in the subject box if you want to send it direct to my email (which is on my bio page) or it'll get deleted. Warning: Darkfic, slash, incest, self-harm. '_Blah_' is emphasis. This is Part Two of the 'Depths Of Misery' Arc.

_**Atonement**_

Blood dripped to the floor, combining with the thick layers of long undisturbed dust. A small sob of pain escaped him; this was the only place he _knew_ no one would find him and learn of his indiscretions. No one came here any more, even to clean. Those who had loved her had made the rooms into an almost sacred space.

Ragged sobs escaped him and he rested the back of his head against the cool stone of the wall. He watched the thick rivulets of scarlet liquid drip from the tips of his fingers to the floor, splashing into the small puddles that were already forming rapidly.

Stormy eyes travelled upwards from the minute splatters on the ground to the source of the red flow. This cut was not the deepest ever, yet the wound seemed over-enthusiastic: even several minutes after the cutting the bleeding had not ceased. But his ever-present guilt, shame and screaming conscience were dimmed, to be replaced with a dull insistent ache that pushed all other thoughts to the back of his mind.

When the flow of blood began to slow, the pain recede and the thoughts return, he gripped the bloodied knife again and sliced smoothly into the skin above the previous wound. Flexing his arm, both cuts began to bleed heavily and sharp pains shot through his body as the damaged skin pulled back. Wine-like liquid dripped from each cut, hot on his bare skin.

Despite the pain he smiled. This was why he lied to those he loved about his scratches! This was the reason he returned to this now-secluded room, with its horde of memories. Freedom from the cruel responsibility for his shameful actions was in each new gash, each soon-to-be scar.

As he watched, the rapid flow of blood became a slow trickle, then stopped altogether. The now swiftly drying blood on his arms and hands darkened in colour, the bright cherry deepening to burgundy.

A sigh of liberation escaped his lips; he had performed his penance this night and unburdened his soul once more.

Blood called for blood, just as sin called for sin. He knew of no other way to cleanse his Fëa of the wrongs that he did – this was the only sure way. The things that he did in this empty room were his way of remaining sane – expected to cope and be the "strong" one; _this_ was the way he coped. _This_ was the way he atoned.

Using the wall to pull himself upright, the Elf picked up his stained knife and, after crossing the room he felt under the bed for his supplies to clean up. His questing fingers met the cloth bag and carefully selected the required items.

With a pang of regret he bound the wounds with clean bandages, hiding the red smears. Tugging the long sleeves of his dark shirt down, he checked that it covered the bandages completely, hiding them from view. As he cleaned off his hands and the floor of telltale bloodstains with water from a bottle in the bag, he reflected that it would soon need refilling.

A quick glance around the silent room told him that – but for a little disturbed dust and the wet floor – there was no sign that anyone had been there in recent times. Packing his things back into his bag took little more than a minute and – with the blade safely hidden – he shoved the pack under the bed again, moving the covers until it wasn't even visible from the floor.

He took another look around the room before turning away. The throbbing in his arm continued unabated, and he knew that this small reparation would last him a little while. His own spilt blood paid for his crimes, just as the blood of the Orcs he slew paid – little by little – for the loss of his mother, however temporary it might be.

Rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, the Elf removed all of his tears and all trace of their tracks. One hand rose to check that his ink black hair was unruffled, then he smoothed the creases from his shirt and headed for the door.

Pressing an elegantly pointed ear against the wood he listened for sound in the corridor on the other side: nothing. The coast was clear. Still he was cautious – with no wish to be caught, it was best to double check. He opened the door a crack and peered out – his first impressions had been right – there was no one there. He pushed the door fully open, stepped out into the corridor and quietly closed the door behind him.

That done, he walked through the corridors of Imladris calmly, as though he had done nothing and been nowhere but about his usual business. As he passed a shadowed alcove, strong arms shot out and grabbed him. One arm immediately pinned his own to his sides and the other covered his mouth, muffling his cries effectively. As he was drawn into the darkened space he thrashed desperately, trying to free himself until a familiar voice murmured into his ear,

"Stop struggling!"

Angry relief weakened his knees and he relaxed into the others arms. The hand that covered his mouth was removed and – as he was spun around in the other grip – was replaced by warm lips. A tangle of limbs followed, the kisses growing more fevered as their tongues battled for dominance.

Only the shock of cold hands against his chest brought him to his senses. Shirt half-undone he pushed his "attacker" back and held him off with an outstretched arm.

Straining his eyes to pierce the gloom he met the inquisitive stare of the stormy grey eyes identical to his own, with their confused expression.

"We will be _caught_ if we stay here!" he hissed. "Anyone can see us here!"

The other sighed, smoothed out the creases in his shirt and stepped out into the light of the corridor.

"So?"

Glaring at his mirror image, Elladan buttoned up his dishevelled shirt. His twin grinned at him until, unable to resist any longer, Elladan smiled back, if a little ruefully.

A weary note to his voice, Elladan said, "You will undo me, 'Ro."

"I dearly hope so, 'Dan. It is my greatest wish." Elrohir's laviscious wink and teasing tone caused Elladan to flush hotly, his face reddening. "Come – we will go to our rooms if you fear for the security of our secret."

"I – I do not know."

A single dark eyebrow rose and Elrohir's face was a picture of disbelief. "Then I shall decide for you." He walked away slowly, knowing that his twin could not help but follow. And – as always – Elladan did.

Trailing several paces behind he watched his brothers back with sad eyes and smiled softly, wistfully. He loved Elrohir, he truly did.

"I _do_ love you, 'Ro," he mouthed silently to his twins unseeing back. As always, the harsh twinge of regret spread through him as he thought about it. "My brother…my lover…my sin…"

He followed his twin, even so. He could not have stopped himself even had he wished to. He could but atone.

**The End**

(28th September '04)


End file.
